


Regret

by Feavel



Category: Hamilton-Miranda
Genre: I don't know, LMM Hamilton, hamilton musical, it just came to me in the shower, probably riddled with historical inaccuracies, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 20:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5262458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feavel/pseuds/Feavel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Burr cannot decide whether he regrets killing Hamilton. He feels that the self-loathing slinking through him like a depressant is a strong indicator in the affirmative, and that if he had the chance to do it over, knowing as he does now that Hamilton wouldn't shoot, he would not have fired either, but--he does not think he regrets it. He would not do it again, but he does not regret it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regret

**Author's Note:**

> AU where people turn into statues when they die (or sustain an injury that would result in their death?? Idk, I didn't think this through).  
> I really just wanted to make myself sad and explore what Hamilton looked like in his final moments, and when I act this scene out in my room (whaddya mean, that's not normal?), I always freeze when Alex gets shot anyway, so-- Now you have this. Sorry.   
> Also, I might make it longer someday, but it's 3 in the morning. This is all you're getting out of me at 3 in the morning.

Burr doesn't process that Hamilton has shot into the sky until it's too late. Burr's finger has already pulled the trigger on his own pistol. He lurches forward, as though he can stop the bullet from hitting Hamilton, as though he can halt the duel he wanted in the first place and wants no longer, now that it's half a second away from being over.   
The bullet enters Hamilton's flesh right between his ribs, and Burr barely has time to hope that the wound won't be fatal before Hamilton freezes where he stands, one arm forever raised in resignation, the other at his side, hand loose and relaxed. Burr doesn't want to look, but can't tear his eyes away from the final expression on his enemy's face. Only one expression, it seems, but inexplicably myriad emotions wrapped into one slightly furrowed brow, one small frown, one pair of deep brown eyes expressing infinitely many things at once behind those spectacles that few beside Burr had known Hamilton even wore.   
Burr wishes he could be certain of what was happening in Hamilton's head when he died, but judging by those haunting eyes, looking right at where Burr was standing just moments ago, Burr thinks he has an idea.   
There is regret, mostly. Regret that Hamilton is (literally) throwing away his shot, as he had been so fond of saying he would not do. Regret that he is here, facing the prospect of killing or being killed by his sometime friend, the first friend he made in America. Regret for all the wrongs he had done Eliza, and that he would never see her again.   
There is muted joy at the prospect of meeting once again with the loved ones who had gone on before him; with Laurens, with Hamilton's son Philip, with General Washington, with Hamilton's mother.   
There is--is that--forgiveness? Fear? Both? Neither? One final je ne sais quoi in Hamilton's eyes, partially hidden behind his outstretched arm, reaching toward the heavens.  
Overall, Hamilton looks, if anything, serene. Calm. Ready for death. There is still so much to do, but Hamilton has done more than his share. His race is run, and if Weehawken is the finish line, then so be it, his face seems to say.   
Hamilton is rowed back across the Hudson River to his home, so Eliza and their children can mourn him and give him a proper funeral there.   
Burr stays in Weehawken, wanting nothing more than alcohol to sate the empty feeling in his chest and stomach. Empty, he thinks, not because Hamilton is gone--Burr couldn't stand Hamilton, and Hamilton probably knew it--but because he himself is the reason for it.   
As he sits alone at a bar in the wee hours of the morning, Burr registers dimly the depressing irony of his situation: being rid of the man who had seemingly made it his mission to ruin Burr's political career is actually going to make his pursuits suffer all the more, because Burr is directly responsible for Hamilton's death.  
Burr drinks slowly as he contemplates, welcoming the burning sensation in his throat.   
Burr cannot decide whether he regrets killing Hamilton. He feels that the self-loathing slinking through him like a depressant is a strong indicator in the affirmative, and that if he had the chance to do it over, knowing as he does now that Hamilton wouldn't shoot, he would not have fired either, but--he does not think he regrets it. He would not do it again, but he does not regret it. Hamilton's death was an inevitability, as is Burr's own. And knowing Hamilton's stubborn, ardently passionate personality, and the fact that he butted heads with so many people while he was alive, it was extremely unlikely that he would succumb to illness or old age before he rubbed the wrong person the wrong way. It just figures that the person wrongly rubbed the longest is the person to finally pull the trigger on the gun Hamilton loaded and cocked himself, as was his wont, Burr considers as he sets down an empty glass.   
His last thought before he sleeps the next night (no sleep was had the night of the duel) is that he shouldn't have been so bigheaded as to think that America--indeed, the world--could only handle one of them, him or Hamilton. The world was wide enough for both of them.   
The world was wide enough for both Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr.


End file.
